The Worst Radio Show
by chisora
Summary: Kyle Broflovski listens to one, and only one radio station. The only reason he listens to it is to hear a particular mans' voice. What happens when he finally calls the station to talk to the man himself? How will he handle the consequences? WARNING XXX
1. The Best Radio Show

So hi everybody! It's been a while. Just so you all know, Model Theory is still in the works. I haven't completely given up on it, even though I haven't updated in FOREVER.

This is a going to be a few chapters long, I hope. It's something I came up with while reading South Park fanfics. It's kind of a horribly dirty version of The Truth About Cats and Dogs. It's also an experiment.

Please R&R. I really want (and need) to know what you think of it, so I can I can improve on it and the next chapter.

Don't leave me hangin' guys!

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park Characters.**

**Warning: Graphic Language and Sexual Content.  
><strong>

**-XXX-  
><strong>

Another cold evening with a dark, starless sky outside my window. I'm laying on my bed, sprawled out where I fell an hour before. I had come home from my dead end job, and just deflated. The people I worked for were assholes. The people I worked with were dickheads. The customers were douchebags.

Another day, wasted.

It isn't so much that my life is shit, than that I'm stuck, in what amounts to a pile of shit. What everyone else calls a rut.

I went through a phase when I was in middle school, where I hated everyone and everything. It was short lived and short loved. I gave up the black nail polish and dark soul searching for a clearer head.

I went on to high school and found out I really like comedy. I pulled as many pranks as Cartman had pounds of fat, and excelled in the drama class I decided to take. When I graduated, I went to Colorado U. and majored in drama.

Half way through the degree I dropped out when I found out that I had no acting skill what so ever.

I changed my major to English and now, while going to school, I'm interning with a local newspaper.

A few people would kill for my job, even after they find out that the only thing they will ever do is file the mail. Ever.

School is fine. I'm passing. But the passion isn't there. Not like it as night. When I'm laying here after work, waiting for _the_ radio show to come on.

It's a dark humor comedy schpeel with a man named C.T. who takes calls from random douchebag type people from around the state, and lets them rant. He then precedes to completely degrade them for their stupidity, telling them in the most sarcastic way possible that they need to stop being such pussy eating dickwads.

There's usually a guest speaker on each show, which runs every night at 11:57 pm., four nights a week. They'll do a shitty joke poll or prank call a few people.

It isn't the most popular show on the radio. There are even rumors running around that the show is going to be canceled soon. It doesn't matter to me really. The show sucks balls.

It's 11:57 pm. I slowly roll over, grunting at the stiffness in my back. What kind of newspaper has office hours until 10:30 at night?

I press the button on my pathetic radio, the station is already tuned to the one I want, and just on time, I hear the shitty music chime in on the highest possible setting I can have it on with out the neighbors in my apartment complex shooting me in the fucking face.

Then _he_ comes on.

C.T. laughs dryly before muttering something under his breath. He hesitates a moment, and my breath catches as he starts the show.

"Good morning fuckheads. If you have nothing better to do than fucking listen to this shitty show you really need to get a fucking life."

His voice is smooth, deep, and enthralling. Wait, no, fuck that. His voice is a sexy as all _fuck_.

"So tonight I'm running this shit hole stag. That's right folks, the rumors you hear are true. This old bitch is getting shut the fuck down." A deep chuckle resounds over the speakers and I let the air out of my lungs. He's hardly even said anything and my pant's are already too fucking tight.

"This is the last show you'll get to hear. There are no guests. There are no gags. It's just me and you. Ain't that just fucking swell? I bet you're as stupid as me, sitting in a shitty, broken chair waiting for some mythical big fuck to whisk you out of it." His laugh is a bit darker this time. He's pissed, but at the same time it sounds like he's elated.

"Tonight I want you fucks to call me. I want to hear your dimwitted sob story, and I want you to know how fucking hilarious I think it is. So bitches, start dialing away." C.T. cut to commercial. I decided it was time to get the stupid slacks off of me and crawl under the covers of my crappy bed to wait for it to come back on. I've still got a huge boner, but I think about the seriousness of my situation.

I hate the show, but how the hell am I supposed to hear the fucking host, if he isn't on the radio anymore.

It's been almost three months since I started listening to the show, and even though I don't think of myself as a gay ass _fag_, I know that in these three months, the only thing I've been able to jerk off to was that bastards fucking voice.

"Oh, look, you dipshits are actually calling. You guys are fucked up! You seriously call here all the fucking time knowing I'm going to mind fuck you and you still. Keep. Calling. What the fuck ever. Caller number I Don't Give A Fuck, what's your shit?"

"H-hey C.T. I'm a first time caller-" This guy's voice is high pitched and nervous. I already want to punch him.

"Fuck you." C.T. cuts in.

"W-well, you see, I'm kinda in love with this girl in my class. I think she hates me though-"

"Of course she does, you're a fucking dick."

"No, I mean, I give her my notes all the time, and I follow her home from school to make sure she's safe, and I even listen to the same music she does, but she won't even look at me anymore."

"So you aren't a dick, but in fact, a stalking creepy fuck who won't leave her alone?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds bad, but really, I'm not creepy at all, I make sure she knows I'm there and I even leave her letters in her locker."

"Dude, that's pretty fucked up you know-"

"I even sent her to a movie she had been wanting to see. I heard her talking about it with one of her friends!" I think my dick just deflated.

"Shut the fuck up and listen to yourself. You're a fucking creepy ass stalker. Of course she wants nothing to do with you. You need to chill the fuck out, you aren't ever going to get that fucking girl. You've already screwed that up." His voice was a bit higher, a bit more exasperated then usual. He was angry at the caller, which was a bit weird. C.T. rarely seemed to feel anything more the mere dark amusement over others suffering. Tonight he didn't seem so much a sexy demon as much as he did an angry, sexy _person_ he did right now.

I shoved my hand down my boxer-briefs and wrapped my fingers around my dick. I wasn't any better then the stupid fuck who was calling, but I didn't give two shits at the moment.

"But, I think we're meant to-"

"And that's it for you, you aren't going to listen to me, in fact you're probably going to go cut her up and stuff her in your closet, so I really want no fucking thing to do with this conversation anymore." I hear a puff of breath travel over the radio as he lets out a sigh.

I squeeze my hand, unsqueeze, and pump. Once, twice, and then I stop. There's still another forty five minutes to go.

"Fuckin' next caller. What is wrong with yoooou?" He practically moans. And even though it isn't one of those 'I'm going to cum buckets all over your face' type of moans, it still makes my dick twitch.

"I hate everything. I fucking hate my stupid parents. They didn't buy me an iPhone 4G. They didn't buy me a car. All I got were a bunch of stupid clothes and a fucking macbook."

"Well ain't that just shitty."

"Of course! I told them I wanted a fuckin' 4G. I mean seriously I have a 3G and all of my friends already have 4G phones."

"You know what you can do with that shitty 3G phone?" He almost sounded happy.

"What?" The idiot girl really had to ask?

"You can shove that thing up you're fucking ass, because that's how much fuck I give. You have a fucking phone. It works. You have a fucking computer. You have fucking lungs to breath with, and you are literally stealing the air I could be breathing. The air that is wasted on you is a sad, sad loss."

Again the show cuts to commercial.

There are more callers when the break ends. Each time I hear his voice my hand moves of its own accord. It's amazing I can make myself last this long. He sounds so fucking hot with that velvet voice, and I try to imagine what he looks like. I was never able to find pictures of him. He's probably a fat fuck with nasty greasy clothes on. But I don't imagine that. I imagine a faceless body, all hard, lean muscle with a nasty smirk resonating through his voice. A voice that tells me exactly how hard he's going to fuck me.

"We don't have a lot of time left. I really don't feel like taking any more of these shitty fucking calls. Is there anyone even out there who has something interesting to say? If so, call me you fucktard. Make my fuckin' day."

Again I pause, and stop pulling on my cock. I think a moment. I've never called the show before. I've never spoken to him. There isn't going to be another chance.

I grab my cell. It's a cheap piece of crap. One of those phones you buy a time card for. One that they don't even require you're information for. I could call. I could call and fucking speak to that fucking _god_ and even if I fucking came right then and there, loud and shamelessly, he would never know who I was.

I dial the number.

"Hello this is CSSP 93.2fm. You calling to talk on the C.T. show?"

"Um-uh...yeah?" It isn't him. It's some woman with one of the most annoying voices ever. Again, I think my dick just wilted.

"Well? What's your story? He said he doesn't want to take shitty life problems. You got something more interesting then that?"

"Fuck, yeah I do."

"Well, what is it?"

"I work for a newspaper. I've been listening to this shitty station since this show came on and I'd like to tell him thanks for making me...laugh?"

"Aww fuck...Is that really the best you've got?"

"You got anything better?"

"Naw, not really, probably why were going off air." She chucked a bit, but it sounded more like a wheeze. "Well, whatever. Please wait on hold until you go on air."

I wait about ten minutes. During that time, goosebumps break out over my skin and my pulse pounds faster each second longer I wait. The radio is turned down low, as I listen to the other jerkoffs who called in.

How the fuck did a guy with ten dogs end up on the air? Who the fuck cares if he has ten dogs? C. T. feels the same.

Another commercial break, the show is almost over and I'm nearly ready to hang up.

"You're on the air dipshit. You call me to tell me how awesome I am or what?"

"Uh...what?" I stammer. I can't believe that it's his voice on the other line.

"I said you're on the air. Speak or go die." Velvet. Fucking million dollar velvet.

My hand is in my boxer-briefs again, and this time, I'm trying to stop myself from shooting my load right then and there.

"Uh...hi-"

"Bitch, get on with it. I'm bored as fuck."

"I...well I called to let you know, that your show...is probably the worst-the worst show I've ever listened to." I groan, turning my head slightly into my pillow. I can't help but let my hand pump my shaft. I cant help the sound that escapes, cutting off C.T's response.

"That is the best praise I've ever-"

"Ah! Mmmm you know what? I've gotten so tired of listening to those fucking whiny bitches every night, every fucking show for the last three months?" My voice shakes, desire tinging ever syllable I speak.

"The fuck are you on man?" I ignore what he says, but I let the sounds of his deep, sexy, confused voice fill my ears and a grip the base of my cock, long fingers cradling my balls almost too tightly.

"Really, you never should have even taken those calls. You probably would have ran the show fine without them..mmm. I mean, fuuuck, you're voice is even hotter over the phone...clearer-" I stop, horrified at what I just said. Yeah, I was gonna try and cum before the call was over, but I didn't really want it all...out in the open like that.

"What is this? A fucking prank or somethin-"

"No! No, it-it isn't, fuck, sorry, I'm a bit distracted-well, every time you fucking talk. Just give me a few seconds and I'll hang up." I don't wait a moment longer and shove the phone between my face and the pillow, shoving both hands down my underwear jerking myself off as I finish what I want-no need to say.

"I've been listening to this shitty station since it first came on. I was driving h-home from work, and your stupid fucking voooice came on the station. I had to fucking pull over and jerk off like some gay ass queer because of you and your lame ass show." Insert wanton whore moan here.

"What the-" I cut him off, how dare he speak?

"Right now, you're telling me, that the only fucking fuel I have to jerk off to anymore, isn't going to be on this fucking station anymore, and I'm not happy at all about that. But since you don't know me, and you probably talk to assholes like me all day, I could care less about the fact that I've got my hands wrapped around my cock, on air." I breath deeply. The line is quiet, but I think I hear something in the background. He probably ended the call. I don't give a fuck, and I continue.

"I'm jerking off to your stupid voice, thinking you're probably one ugly fuck, but you know what, I've got no dignity left, so with this I'm gonna fucking shut up, and I'm going to cum all over my sheets just. For. You."

It only take two flicks of my wrist, and hand running down the inside of my thigh and I'm nearly yelling my release over the phone line.

I wring out the last of my orgasm and shut the phone off. I don't want to think about what I just did.

I, Kyle Broflovski, one of the only Jews that was raised in South Park, just jerked off to a guy on a phone.

I'm a bigger perv than Kenny.

Fuck my life.

**-XXX-**

Again, please R&R! Let me know what you think! Also, I do not have a beta, so if you happen to see any fail I'd love if you point it out so I can fix it right away.

Chapter 2 Preview:

_I couldn't believe it. I could not fucking believe it. It isn't possible. It can't be. That voice can not be real. It can NOT be coming from behind me. It can NOT be his._


	2. The Worst Coffee House

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, or it's characters.**

**Warning: Graphic Language  
><strong>

**Chapter Two: The Worst Coffee House**

The sounds of cars passing on the street filter through the door every time another customer walks in. It's distracting and starting to piss me off. If it wasn't bad enough that I had to make what felt like a hundred Cafe Mochas (with soy) an hour, I have to listen to the damn door chime ring every time the thing opens or closes.

I ring up another order, my voice clipped and dead. I miss the radio show, and how I could say anything I wanted to, to the assholes I had to deal with. It was one of the worst jobs I've ever had, with the worst pay I've ever gotten. But it gave me a sense of self, where as Coffeh Coffeh Conniption just made me feel oh so very dead inside.

"Two Cafe Mochas, one Toasty Marshmallow Cutie and a cream puff." A tiny piece of what is left of my soul has just died.

Conniption has several people working at once, because the cafe is located in a prime shopping district, which is in the center of an office district. The opening hour and the lunch hour are the busiest times of day. I work the noon shift, so I come in just before the dreaded lunch hour.

Did I mention I have to wear a pink apron?

I fucking hate pink.

I'm working the register as a coworker named Wendy Testaburger runs around flippantly making drinks with the other girl, Bebe Stevens. Clyde Donovan, a long time acquaintance, manages the place. Which means he sits on his ass and watches everyone else do the work.

I haven't been working this shift long. I used to run the evening shift because of the late hours with the radio show, but when I no longer had to stay up all night with it, I was able to work at a normal time.

"Hey, Craig, go take my spot, I wanna take over the register." Wendy said, pushing me aside as she logged me off the machine.

"Whatever..." I really had the urge to flip her the bird, but I doubt Clyde would be happy with me if I did that in front of all the customers.

I start making the drinks as she calls them out. I don't know how long it's been, I just know I hate coffee.

"Hey Wendy!" I hear a voice cut through my thoughts. I know that voice.

I don't want to turn around. I can not fucking believe it. It isn't possible. It can't be. That voice can not be real. It can NOT be coming from behind me. It can not be _his_.

"Hey Kyle, how's work going?" Wendy asks, she sounds like she knows the guy pretty well.

"Pretty bad. They have me filing mail." He replies with a sigh.

"They always have you filing the mail!" She says loudly, I glance over.

"Yeah...and I'm the coffee runner. Again." I hear Wendy make a disgruntled sound, but I don't pay too much attention as I watch 'Kyle' from the corner of my eye.

He has red hair that looks like it might catch on fire its so red. It looks like its been tamed down, as if, in the mornings its probably a curly birds nest, but right now is only slightly wavy. It isn't very long. He's wearing some shitty white button up, that, even though it's obviously expensive, is wrinkled all to hell, and khaki slacks that are equally wrinkled.

I don't want to admit it, but his face is actually pretty. In an ordinary sort of way.

That's the pervert douchebag who called in on the last night? His voice doesn't go with his girly face. It's a bit deeper then you'd expect.

Wendy shouts his stupid and large order at me, I sigh defeatedly and work on the drinks. If I knew which one was his, I'd dump a shitload of half and half in it.

While I'm working on another Cafe Mocha, I listen to their conversation, albeit distractedly.

"When are they going to read any of your shi-stuff?" Wendy said, correcting herself last minute. She was totally going to say shiatsu.

"Probably never. I thought the internship was gonna be a great opportunity, but they treat me like a freakin' secretary. No, less than that." He hands her some bills to pay for the order, and Wendy takes another customer's order, talking to Kyle off and on.

"When is it over?" She asks. I hear the register open and close. I add too much foam to a cappuccino and not enough espresso. I'm not going to remake it.

"When I die." He answers. I hear the distinct sound of the straw dispenser as he grabs a bunch of them. "The end of the quarter."

"How are your classes going?" Wendy is just full of unique and in-depth questions today. "Stan was wondering if you'd like to go to his party this weekend?"

"Fine. Not getting enough sleep but fine." He answers the first as I hear Wendy call for a drink carrier. I leave Bebe to it. I've got hot, steaming milk in my hands. Priorities. "Sure, I'll go. Haven't seen him in a while anyways. Not like I have a lot to do either. Except a paper. But it wont take long to do."

"I'll let him know." I can hear the smile in her voice. I wonder if she'd smile if I told her her friend is a pervert asshat who calls random radio stations while he's jerking off.

I finish the last of the drinks and dump them on the counter next to Wendy, who I glare at. I look Kyle dead in the eye and glare. He looks startled.

"Uh...hi?" He says to me. I guess I confused him. He _looks_ confused. That means he probably doesn't know who I am.

I glare harder and turn away.

"Don't mind him, he's always like that."

**-XXX-**

At the end of my shift, I pull on my jacket. It's a worn wool blue peacoat, but a washed out, rainy day sort of blue. I've had it for almost three years and it's always been the perfect amount of warm on a cold day. I need to take it in and have the lining done. It's falling apart.

My black slacks have coffee on them, and I know when I get home, the whole place will smell like coffee because of my clothes.

I really hate coffee.

I make sure my wallet is in my back pocket, and my keys in my coat pocket. I notice everyone is busy either changing shifts or cleaning. The shift change is always an awkward time to be around Coffeh Coffeh Conniption.

I chuckle as I grab one of the plastic gloves, pumping a glob of chocolate onto it. As I leave I make sure to get the inside of the door handle, where you cant see the metal, and slime it with the stuff. It's nice, that even though I pull pranks a lot, they're never quite sure if it's me. They have their suspicions, but one of the other guys that work in this shitfest also has a mean streak.

I laugh quietly as I walk towards the bus. When I get on an old man looks at me like I'm insane. I flip him off with a nice "Fuck you." thrown in. The bus driver ignores me as always, and the old bastard looks scandalized.

It's a long ride home.

I take the bus because it's easy. I don't have to think about driving. I don't have to think about how I really want to drive down the sidewalk and hit all of the pedestrians like in Grand Theft Auto. I have my license, but not the ambition to deal with a car and street laws and all that.

When I reach my apartment, it smells like lemons. I keep the place clean, because I don't like dealing with a mess. There are a few things here and there, like a throw laying on the floor and a book tossed on the old leather couch.

I kick off my shoes, and unbutton my coat, throwing it on the back of the couch, where it will stay until I put it back on.

I plop down on the massive piece of furniture, and turn on my decently sized LCD television. stretching my legs out and relaxing. The news is on, or something. I don't really watch it, because I'm thinking about how my day transpired.

Most of the people who called the radio show were from the area, after all it's a local station, but I had no idea I could ever meet the guy who called in that last night on air.

At first, the whole situation freaked me out. The things he was saying were erratic and weird all on their own, but as I listened, I couldn't bring myself to cut him off. His voice was...magnetic and the lust I could hear over the line turned my ears into metal.

When I realized it wasn't a joke, and he really was jerking off, I cut the show short. But he was still on the line when he finished, moaning like some whore before the line clicked dead.

I had sat in my seat awkwardly for awhile. Mary, the assistant who fed the calls in to me looked like she was going to go bug eyed on me, so I stood up, flipped her the bird and said my farewells. She was nice, but damn did her voice piss me off.

I would never admit it, but that night I came home and jerked off faster than I ever had before.

Fuck, news is boring.

**-XXX-**

I wake up pissed off, as usual. Clyde calls me in an hour early, which makes me angrier. When I get to work, my black hair is a mess, falling into my eyes every four-and-a-half seconds. I put on the stupid pink apron and my little 'Craig Tucker' Coffeh Coffeh Conniption name tag, and I stand behind the counter with a sour and slightly dead look on my face.

Order after order after order. Today Wendy doesn't seem inclined to take over. There's a short break in the swarms of people, so I check my cell phone. I got a text from Tweek.

'Can u sTop bY after work w a six-shot?' The text reads.

'Sure, whatever. Be there round 5.' I reply, pressing send as a new swarm of fucks bombards the cafe.

It's almost one. And again there is a lull in the shop. I put my head in my hands and my elbows on the counter, supporting my weight. My eyes attempt to roll into my brain as I try to get some sort of rest. My ass is sticking out, so Bebe decides to slap it with a towel. I hiss and straighten up, rubbing the sore spot as the door chimes for the umpteenth time.

Kyle walks up to the counter, staring at me curiously as I rub my ass. I stop and stare at him with a stupid look on my face, waiting for him to say something stupid. Which includes ordering fifteen damn coffees.

"Is Wendy around?" The bitch just had to take her break, leaving me with the perv.

"She's on break. Are you going to order or do you want to wait." I glare daggers, but my seething glare doesn't stop me from noticing how pale he just went.

His eyes open really wide. They're grass green. As bright as his hair, and just as soon as his cheeks had paled, deep red rushed back into them. He's looking everywhere, no longer meeting my eyes.

"Um..uh..yea-h..." He stutters.

"Really?" I say, drawing the word out, letting it roll on my tongue as each sound breaks through.

About then he notices my name tag. I can see the gears running in his mind, I watch his (not at all kissable lips) mouth each word. Digesting what it meant.

"Craig Tucker." I say, a Cheshire grin blossoming on my face. I feel like my skin is cracking, it's been a while since I made the face. "You going to order or am I supposed to read your mind?"

He slowly raises his eyes to mine and steps back slowly. He looks like a scared rabbit.

"Cat got your tongue?" I say in a low voice as I lean over the counter, inching towards him.

"I-I...Craig...Craig..T-tucker?" He whispers. "C...C.T.?"

"There once was a little radio show that couldn't." I drawled, tapping the counter with my index finger as I once again leaned my head on my open palm.

My Cheshire grin grows alarmingly into a near smile as the weight of it all lands on the ginger's shoulders.

"You...you can't be..." He backs up a little more, a curling lock of hair falling into his face. I use my own and let it slide in front of my eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure I can be...Kyle." I reply, pointing to my name tag. "Says so right here."

I haven't had this much fun in forever.

**-XXX-**

Second chapter! It is done! It's going pretty smoothly too! Thank you for the reviews, I was afraid I wouldn't get many good remarks, but you guys said wonderful things.

**bluestar:** Thanks! I'm glad you like it so far, I hope I continue to please!

**Nana:** I try to be as original as I can. I hope you read and enjoyed this chapter.

**Nameless Person:** At first I was thinking about it being a one shot, but I'm a romantic so I had to continue on!

**symphknot:** I'm glad you like how pervy it is. I was worried it would rub people the wrong way.

Again, thank you, please R&R!

**Chapter Three Preview:**

_He had a look of purpose in his eyes as he strode towards me. Fuck. If I had known he'd be at this fucking party I wouldn't have shown up. I don't like Stan that much. _


	3. The Best Saturday Night

HI! Another chapter!

I just wanted to let everyone know, that yes, I'm writing OOC. Kyle usually isn't one to curse a lot, but I imagine him to be one of those guys who curses in his head rather than out loud. I want him to have that sort of innocence where you can tell he's trying to fit in, but is still just a little to scared to let it show.

I also want to mention that I'm trying to stay in as much character as possible, so there a lot of swearing, insults and generally very bad language and name calling. I suppose if you're a fan of South Park you're probably used to it, but I just don't want anyone to think I actually use some of these insults in real life. I am not racist, sexist nor do I stoop so low as to insult someones' religion. That being said I hope my writing doesn't offend anyone, as it can get pretty dirty lol.

Anyways, on with the chapter. Its much longer today, so I hope you enjoy it. It took a bit longer to write but I think it was worth it.

**Disclaimer: I don't own South Park or it's characters. Please don't sue me.**

**-XXX-**

I was in a coffee shop. I know I was. But why am I here? Standing in the supply room staring at stacks of reams that have materialized around me. Why the _fuck_ am I sitting here, in a paper fort?

_Fuck._

It all comes rushing back to me now, as I sit here looking at the 'Office Depot' printed on the reams.

I had been sent to Coffeh Coffeh Conniption,_ again_ on a mid day coffee run. I was going to order two Lattes, four Cafe Mocha's, three Americano's and one Cappuccino. The list was a bit short, because a few of the employees at the The Gazette had decided to go out for their lunch break.

I took my normal route, only a few minutes of walking and I was at the shop, pulling open the door, hearing the fucking lame bell toll as I stepped in. The guy at the counter was the same guy who had stared at me yesterday, with that dead fish sort of look. He was rubbing his ass with a sour look on his face, staring at Bebe. When I got closer, I was awake enough to notice he had a pretty nice face. It didn't stand out exactly, and it was sort of pretty, in that manly, GQ model sort of way. His eyes were a blue-coal color, framed by thick black eyelashes. His hair was the same color, that dark noirette that looked nearly fake.

He had fucking _girly_ eyes.

I don't see Wendy, who is usually at the register when I come in, so I ask him if she's there.

His mouth opened in this sort of slow motion way, and it took me a few moments to really register his voice. When I did, I felt my brain go cold. My fucking blood turning to ice.

"She's on break. Are you going to order or do you want to wait." The same damn voice from the same damn radio show. But it wasn't possible. Why would C.T. be wearing a gay ass pink apron, working in some lame coffee shop?

I'm struck dumb and stutter, trying to piece together all the reasons in the world it can't be the same person, making myself sound like the dumbest shit to ever be shat.

Then I see it. 'Craig Tucker'. In Arial. The little piece of printed tape stuck to the pin tag slightly off kilter.

C fucking _T._

"Craig Tucker." He says, leaning forward when he sees he has the upper hand. His face contorts into an almost evil smile. A _knowing_ smile.

"I-I...Craig...Craig..T-tucker?" I whisper, "C...C.T.?"

His face brightens just slightly, making him look a bit insane. I think it fits well with the evil persona he was obviously going for.

"There once was a little radio show that couldn't."

I blacked out about then, I assume. It's hard for me to remember the details, but I have the vague notion that I was horribly distraught. Distraught enough to stutter, squeal and run back to my office, only to barricade myself in this paper fort.

I bury my head into my knees again.

I can't fucking believe it. It's impossible.

Craig _fucking_ Tucker. C.T. Not only did he work at my favorite coffee house, with some of my best friends, but he was hot.

So. Fucking. Hot.

**-XXX-**

The day lasts forever. And by forever, I mean an eternity.

When I finally collapse in my apartment, it's nearly eleven at night. I barely make it to the couch before my bones turn to jelly, and I sort of just contort into the upholstery.

My place is well furnished. A big T.V., a big couch and wing back chairs in the living room. A table big enough to fit eight people made out of expensive wood in the middle of the dining room and a jetted, large bathtub in the restroom, along with a separate shower. My bed room was a bit smaller than most of the rooms, but it was furnished with a decent sized dresser and a massive king sized bed.

Oh, and I always forget about the fucking closet.

I pull my legs up awkwardly on the couch. I don't really move much, so they're sort of resting on my chest and hanging off the back of the couch.

I think of my mom, and how she would screech at me if she saw me like this.

My mother is a ginger, like me. But she's far more aggressive than I am, in fact I'm a momma's boy who will do nearly anything they're told. My mom is the one who pays for my apartment while I continue school. She's the one who furnished it too.

Rich ass Jew.

I moan again as I think about the disaster in Conniption. I can never return. I'm a fuck up. There's no way I could ever face those people again, knowing who works there. Knowing that he knows who_ I_ am.

Shiiiit.

I get up, feeling the call of curiosity. I walk to my computer, that is sitting on a large desk made out of the same wood my table is, and I turn it on.

I don't have to wait long for it to load, and the first thing I do is turn on my single MP3 of one of the C.T. shows I was able to find online. It has become a habit, and I startle when _his_ voice floods my speakers.

I get worked up over his voice, maybe more so when I know what he looks like. I feel my blood rush to my dick, and I sigh.

I have a mission to complete before that.

I get on Facebook. Usually, I go on to check my status updates and to do some random task on FarmVille. Yes, I do mean FarmVille.

I've already proven myself a failure. You should expect this.

Today, I search for Craig Tucker. There happen to be about 400 of them, so I narrow it down by city, and I notice he's enough of a tool to be on Facebook.

I click on his name, and my palms start to sweat. His page loads, and it's the old version, not the new gay timeline version. Most of his information is private, but a few things like the city he lives in, his employer and education show up. I can also access his profile pictures.

There are only three. Two of them are of a guinea pig, labeled 'Stripe', and the last, which is currently being used, is a picture of Craig flipping off a the person taking the photo.

I check out the comments, just because I can, and notice something weird.

Several of my friends have commented on the picture.

**Clyde Donovan** dude I so fucking got a picture for your facebook

**Criag Tucker** Why the fuck do I need a new one?

**Clyde Donovan** because it's been stripe for like 2 fukin' yrs

**Craig Tucker** Whatever. I'll change it then.

**Wendy Testaburger** Aww! How cute! Asshole.

**Craig Tucker** fuck you Testaburger. ( A hand flipping me off follows this in text art.)

**Wendy Testaburger** I don't fuck assholes. That's ur job Tucker.

**Craig Tucker** Ha. Ha. Very funny. Your wit nearly killed me.

**Bebe Baby Stevens** you guys are stupid...nice pic tho.

**Stan Marsh** i finally don't have too look at that dead rat anymore. Thank GOD

**Craig Tucker** I will cut you, Marsh. You know I will.

**Kenny McCormick** I fuck assholes!

When I finish reading the comments, I go back to the top of the page. The picture was taken two months ago in a park. Craig is wearing a black t-shirt, nearly skin tight jeans and worn blue chullo hat. A small smirk turns his lips up at the corner, but his eyes are fairly passive and a bit less dead then when he first spoke to him.

I replay the conversation again. And again. And yet another time when I'm suddenly interrupted by the sound from my phone, telling me I have a new text message.

Stan Marsh: 'dude, Wendy said ur coming to the party. Its on sat. Just show up whenev'

'kay, as long as I don't have to watch you eat her face, like last time.' I reply, pressing the send button.

A few seconds later it buzzes again

'shut up asshole, ur just jellous you don't have a hot babe like her for a gf'

I don't bother to correct his spelling, or his taste.

'I'll bring tequila.' I reply finally, before shutting off my phone. I'm still hard from staring at Craig's profile and listening to his fucking voice. I need to do something about it.

I take care of my business, I don't even admit to myself how quickly I came.

Fuck. I admitted it.

It was the shock of seeing him in person. It's the only explanation.

I've also just realized that I have reached a whole new level of creeper when I notice my semen on the screen of my computer.

**-XXX-**

I refuse to take the coffee orders for the rest of the week. I keep getting weird stares ever since my supervisor found me in my fort.

The weekend finally arrives, and for once I don't have to write an essay, so I go to Stan's early.

Somehow, even though I've been stressing that I might pass by Craig on the way to and from work, I feel myself relived to be at Stan's. It's not like I can talk to him about whats going on. I've never told him about my attraction to guys, and I don't ever intend to, but it's comforting to be around him when I hardly ever see him anymore. He and I used to be attached at the hip.

But that was before he started seriously dating Wendy. And before I switched my major.

"Hey man! You're early!" He says when I walk into his place. He pulls me into one of those manly sports hugs and it doesn't feel any less awkward then it ever has. "Grab a beer! Or do you want to start on the shots first?"

There are already a few people over. A few of the football team are there, some girls scattered about, but I don't see Wendy yet.

"Where's Wendy?" I ask, walking into the kitchenette, grabbing a beer out of the cooler and setting down the tequila on the table.

"She won't be here for a while. The shop is doing some sort of promotion so she said to start the party without her."

"I think you may be the only guy I know that would wait to party until his girlfriend showed up." I say dryly. I don't really like the taste of beer, but I've become accustomed to it over the years. I really prefer wine or hard liquor to this dirty water.

"Shut up dude!" He says laughing, a happy expression coming over his face. I can't deny that he really does love her. Even if I don't like her as much as he wants me to. "She's special, ya know?"

"And I can see you started the party before anyone got here right?" I laugh. Stan is an emotional person, but he usually doesn't get sappy unless he's been drinking a lot.

"Of course! I had permission." He jokes, chugging back his beer and going for another one. "Now bitch, drink that shit." He says merrily as he flutters into the other room.

He has a pretty high alcohol tolerance, but sometimes he acts weirder than our old teacher from primary school when he drinks. And Mr...well, Mrs. Garrison now, was pretty fucking messed up.

Eventually I end up playing beer pong with some of the football team. I'm pretty good at it, so I stop playing after a while when I catch myself trying to dance to one of the songs blaring out of the sound system.

So of course it's time for me to start on the tequila.

When I get to the bottle, it's not where I left it, and its half empty. I feel a bit sad that it wasn't me who drank it, but I don't think about it much and grab it, carrying it with me to Stan, whose in the room with the music.

I catch his attention waving the bottle at him, a stupid smile on my face, and he follows me to one one of the many tables in the dorm that has shot glasses and liquor scattered on the surface. We both do four shots.

By the time the last is burning down my throat Stan is giggling like a mad person, punching me in the arm fairly hard. I choke and return the blow, barley grazing his bicep and he laughs at me. I feel the tequila settle on my stomach, my vision blurring and a guttural laugh escape my mouth before I have a chance to catch it.

Then I can't stop laughing.

Suddenly I want to dance. I want to dance forever.

"Staaan ima daance now. Someone put something goood oooon!" I half shout into the next room. Someone cheers and I hear the music change.

"Kyle, you're already wasted? I thought you'd at least be a bit more sober. Now I feel like the one left out!" Wendy whines as she walks up behind me, passes me, and practically jumps into Stan's arms.

He nearly topples over, but Wendy stops him before he does. She looks like one of those generic knights who saves a damsel off the covers of one of my mom romance novels.

I laugh directly at her.

She smirks at me in return the kisses Stan with way too much tongue, so I take my cue to leave.

Man, I want to dance.

I make it into the other room relatively easy, despite there being a couple laid out in the middle of the hallway, doing everything except strip each other naked. The room is crowded, more so then it was a little while ago.

I guess its just the alcohol kicking in, but I notice a song I like come on, and I practically throw myself into the throng of people.

I've never been a bad dancer. In fact I'm fairly good. I just don't usually like touching people. I move to the beat, rubbing myself against some random person as I try to move towards the center of the group. I can't tell if I'm dancing with men or women, but I don't really care much either way, and grab someone from behind. They have long hair, so I assume it's probably a girl, and I rub my pelvis against her ass, turning her around to dance up close and personal with her.

Her looks aren't anything spectacular, but I'm not trying to get laid, just relieve the stress of the week, so I move on to another person.

I have no idea how many songs have gone by. A mix of rap, hip hop and Ke$ha. I feel a bit dizzy, and I try to get out of the crazy mass of bodies. I think I should eat something before I drink anymore.

As I stumble out of the mess, my foot catches on the most inappropriately placed carpet in the history of Judaism and trip. Not a simple trip where I can catch myself before I hit the ground face first, but one of those ones where it launches you into the air, and momentarily you are completely airborne, before I crash into a waste bin, _of course._

It's mostly filled with red Solo cups but I still hear a few onlookers laugh at me.

"Epic Broflovski!" Someone shouts.

I sit up, running my hand over my elbow, since it took the brunt of my weight and is now crying out for morphine.

A few more people jeer at me, and as I glance over at them I laugh with them.

The laugh is cut short though, when I do a double take towards the kitchen.

_Fuck._

Craig. Craig _fucking_ Tucker.

He had a look of purpose in his eyes as he strode towards me. If I had known he'd be at this fucking party I wouldn't have shown up.

I don't like Stan that much.

Apparently I'm too drunk to make my face function properly, so my eyes cross as I try to look away.

He makes a funny face at me, and if I weren't fucking scared shitless I'd have laughed at it. But instead I'm trying to stand, my jelly knees revolting against me, so that about the time he gets close enough, I just _happen_ to fall directly into him in my attempt to escape.

"Smooth." He says, purring the words into my ear, his mouth dangerously close to my skin.

I get hard. In fact, when do I not, anymore? I feel like I'm thirteen again, looking at my dad's Playboy for the first time.

"I..I-uh-" My entire body has betrayed me, not just my knees.

"Yup. Cool story bro. Lets talk about it somewhere else." He ends his statement with one of those grins again as he pulls me by my uninjured arm toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. I obviously have no choice in the matter, but with all of the alcohol in my system I can't find the will or the thought process to refuse.

When we manage to reach the second landing, he gently shoves me into one of the rooms. There are three, but only one is unoccupied by moaning voices.

He pokes me in the back until I get to the bed, saying nothing, he presses on my shoulder, directing me to sit. I sit on the bed. It's small, maybe a full size mattress. He sits down next to me, humor still in his eyes but he grabs my injured arm and pulls it out away from my body where I've unintentionally been favoring it.

His hands are big, but in that long fingered way. Pale and bony. They're surprisingly warm as he gingerly (no pun intended) pushes up the sleeve of my sweater. When his hand passes over my elbow I wince, my eyes watering at the alcohol diluted pain.

It would probably be worse if I was sober and not shell shocked.

"Fuck..." He mutters, his eyes darkening a bit as he inspects the damage I've done. I hear him sigh. "Look at it."

I do, and I see a large, hellish looking bruise blooming around the injury.

"You need to go to the hospital I think..." He looks a bit troubled, but pauses and looks at me.

"I...yeah..I guess...sure." I reply. I guess even with my more confidant drunk self I'm still a pool of idiocy when I'm face with the challenge that is Craig.

He sighs again.

"When I saw you here I was pretty excited to harass you, but harassing someone who can't defend themselves, and happens to be injured seems a bit...lame." He mutters, a corner of his mouth upturning like he wants to _try_ to get some amusement out of the situation.

"Ah...sorry?" I don't know what else to say. I shouldn't even be sitting here. I should be running far, far away.

"We'll talk. In fact, we'll have a really nice long chat about a few things, but I guess it'll wait until later." I get a hopeful look in on my face before I can hide it. " Ah ah ah! Tomorrow Kyle. We'll have a nice long chat when you're nice and sober and patched up. I'm going to call Clyde and have him get us."

After a brief phone call of Craig demanding that Clyde "Get his fucking ass over to Marshes' fucking shitty dorm to get fucking Broflovski to the hospital." and an awkwardly silent ten minute wait for him to show up. Craig gets the call that he's waiting outside.

The car is another awkward place to be. I don't think Stan noticed me leave with Tucker, and Clyde keeps looking at me funny through his rear-view mirror.

I scowl as I slowly get less and less drunk.

By the time we reach the E.R. my nerves are back and shot all to Hell.

**-XXX-**

The ER wasn't terribly crowded, despite it being the weekend, however, we had to wait for almost two hours for the nurse to even see me. When the tall blonde woman pulled into the back, Craig and Clyde stayed in the waiting room. Neither looked terribly upset about having to spend their evening at the ER, nor did they look terribly put out.

As I followed the nurse through the giant doors into the back area, I noticed Clyde turn to Tucker from the corner of my eye and say something. Whatever it was, Craig laughed and the sound, which was so foreign to my ears, sent chills down my spine.

I had met Clyde a few times. He was tall in self assured way, with pale brown hair and deep eyes. He was nice enough, but Stan was pretty sure he was a narcissist. Though what that had to do with anything I wasn't quite sure. He had a few classes with Stan, and played on the basketball team with him, but he didn't play football.

The nurse took blood pressure and weighed me, then asked if I had been or currently taking any medication. I told her I was taking a Tylenol and a sleep aid, and that I had been drinking before coming here. She didn't bat an eyelash as she sat me down in a chair with a big curtain pulled around it and told me to wait for a doctor.

When the doctor finally got to my little curtain cubical, he took a look at my arm in much the same fashion that Craig had.

"That's one nasty bruise Mr. Broflowsky." He made my name sound like some bad game of adlib when he said it, but I didn't bother telling him.

"Yeah, I fell pretty hard...is it broken or something?" I asked, cringing at the thought of breaking something.

"If you have to ask, then I don't think so!" He laughed at me, then continued. "Can you bend it properly and rotate your wrist properly?"

I did as instructed, wincing as sharp pains sprang through the joint.

"It's looks like a sprain, so I'll just bandage it and give you some Ibuprofen, but you'll need to make an appointment with your regular doctor tomorrow and have them take another look at it. They'll also be able to prescribe you some pain killers while you wait for it to heal. Worst case scenario is that you might need some physical therapy to keep your arm from healing improperly, but otherwise, Mr. Broflowsky, I think you'll be good to go in about ten minutes."

Once my arm was bandaged, the nurse shoo'd me out into the waiting room, where I heard the tail end of Clyde and Craig's conversation.

"-I've even got pictures! I'll forward them to you. It was priceless, I'd never seen Token so pissed." Clyde laughed, hitting Craig in the shoulder.

Craig turned his smiling face toward me, the nonchalant happiness on his face changing into something a bit darker and more...coy, for the lack of a better word.

My face turned bright red. I could feel it, hot and glowing like a Christmas light.

"And Broflovski returns alive!" Clyde cheers.

"What did they say?" Craig asks, standing up and meeting me in the middle of them room.

"Sprain. Have to go see my doctor tomorrow." I can't believe I was able to get out a whole, understandable sentence for once.

"Then it's not broken? That's good." He sounded bored, but I could see some of the tension drain from his shoulders.

He probably just wanted to get the hell out of this place.

"Lets get the hell out of here." He said on cue.

The car ride isn't as awkward this time. Clyde and Craig are joking about some nonsense I can't really follow.

"Broflovski? What kind of name is that anyways?" Craig asks suddenly, turning around in his seat to stare at me, eyes meeting mine.

I flinch.

"My family is Jewish." I simply reply.

"Hmm, so you're a Jew too, then? No offense but I guess it explains a few things..." He gets this knowing look on his face, and all I want to do it take offense, but I don't want him saying anything about that _night_ in front of Clyde, but with my luck, he already knows about it all.

As if reading my mind he smiles that creepy murderous smile again.

"Don't get that look on you're face. I'm not going to say anything. I didn't tell Clyde either, if that's what you're worried about. It's not something I want to have to explain to this dolt."

"I can hear you, you know. I am in the car. I am driving. I will crash simply to kill you, and you know I will Tucker." Clyde sneers at him before turning back to the road.

"Yeah yeah, whatever, bitch." Craig replies, shoving his middle finger into Clyde's face. The brunette then attempts to bite him. "See, he doesn't give a single fuck about it! If it doesn't involve him, he doesn't care." Tucker chuckles and turns his attention back to me.

"But like I said earlier, we're going to have a nice chat. You may or may not end up in pieces, but I can't promise you anything, Broflovski."

Clyde finally reaches my apartment, which I guess truthfully is more of a condo. Both guys make faces at the place, then demand to be shown around.

I don't feel comfortable letting them in, but I do. Swallowing hard, we enter the place, I turn on the lights and they make some funny noises.

"Shit dude, this place is awesome." Clyde says in awe.

"Yeah, it is pretty cool. Not what I expected for a creep. Where's the telescope and binoculars? Oh, I bet you keep them in your bedroom right?" He laughs at me, brushing his arm against mine as he passes me.

I have no idea how to feel about this. I guess I should just be glad that I'm too scared to get hard.

"Fuck, that's a nice T.V. It's bigger than yours, Clyde." Craig points out, laughing about it as if he's happy he can hold it over is head.

"Fuck, whatever, I don't care." Clyde scoffs, as he continues to investigate the place. He walks into the bathroom and I think I hear him swoon.

"Jesus H. Christ, you live like a fucking king Kyle. If the party had been here I might've shown up for once."

"I'll...I'll keep that in mind..."

"Clyde, get the fuck out of the bathroom, you can go jerk off to yourself later. Go home. I have important business to attend to." Craig says suddenly. He look's pretty happy when he meets my eyes. I feel like cowering in a corner.

"Jesus. Fine. Whatever. Don't call me again. Find you're own fucking ride home." Clyde huffs, not bothering to ask _why_ Craig wants to stay at my place.

"Get out Donovan, before I kick your ass."

**-XXX-**

When Clyde leaves, the bang of the door shutting behind him sounds distinctly like a coffin closing.

"So Broflovski."

"Y-yeah?" I stammer, my face trying to pale and blush at the same time.

"Are you the perverted fuck who called my show that night?"

"Wha-what night?"

"Don't play games with me. I want you to admit it." He slowly inches closer to me. As if trying to reassure me that isn't going to kill me right away. Just slowly and painfully.

"What does it matter?" I nearly whisper. He's only a few inches away from me. The challenge in his eyes is preventing me from looking anywhere else, and I can see the flecks of sapphire swirling in them.

"It's the only thing that matters right now." The coyness and laughter suddenly drain from his face leaving a serious and expecting expression behind.

"I...I-" I try to get it out, my mouth isn't working though. I'm all tongue and cheek and I screw my eyes shut as my face burns hotter than before. I know that it's obvious.

I can't believe how fast I was found out, but to think he could recognize me by my voice alone confuses me. I mean, I recognized him, but I've also been desperately obsessing over that voice for months. It should be expected that I'd recognize it, right?

"I am." I finally manage it, but its less then a whisper, its more like I breathed it out. I'm standing rigid and forlorn, knowing hes going to stab me to death or something.

In a split second, he grabs my shoulders, pulling me against him and crushing my lips with his own.

Wait.

What?

My brain ceases to function and I hear a moan in the back of his throat. I think he gets frustrated with my dead corpse routine and he's suddenly running his tongue along my mouth. I gasp and I knew that was a bad idea when his tongue glides past my lips.

My body finally kicks into overdrive and I'm suddenly holding onto him for dear life. My knees go weak and in a very unmanly fashion I collapse into his chest, he holds me firmly, refusing to let me slip to the floor, and he kisses me with such skill that my eyes roll back into my head.

He deepens it. His tongue exploring my teeth and cheeks, moaning again in appreciation when my own joins in the kiss. I have no idea what I'm doing. I never kissed anyone with tongue. I never had to fight someone in my own mouth. He was kissing me like he wanted to own me, and I couldn't process it.

Craig _fucking_ Tucker can kiss like the world is ending.

Craig _fucking_ Tucker was kissing _me_, and I had no idea why.

**-XXX-**

Of course, R&R guys! I love getting you're reviews and I hope that you continue to enjoy this story!

**Chomsky:** You bring up a really great point. In the show, Craig has a nasally voice. It's going to be a big issue later on , and is actually going to be explained in a later chapter. I wont say much, but it has do with why Craig knows so many of the same people Kyle does.

**Hubajoob:** I've decided I kind of like everyone/Craig. But when I first got into the fandom, I was more of a Stan/Craig girl. Once I started reading a lot of fanfics with Stan/Kyle, I knew I wanted to read something different. I love the two together, but it's pretty over done. Kyle has a quirky personality so I thought it might be nice to try this out.

**simply anonymous:** I hope you like this chapter! I'm really happy I can leave you guys wanting for more. Such a wonderful feeling!

Chapter 4 Preview:

_In his sleep he tried to get closer to me. Curling his body into my side. I don't think I've ever felt this comfortable this close to someone before. Sure, I've fucked a few people, but the intimacy was never there, not like this. I just cannot understand why I feel like this for a pervert I've only just met._

_Damn it's going to be a long night._


End file.
